Chapter 26 : The Gathering Storm
[SAMCRO Clubhouse — June 20, 2008, 7:00 PM]
Church ended with plans for war.
Not literal war—not yet—but the kind of preparation that preceded it. The IRA shipment coming at month's end wasn't just another gun run. It was the biggest operation SAMCRO had attempted in years. Enough hardware to arm a small militia, enough money to fund the club for six months.
And enough risk to bring down everything if it went wrong.
Bobby laid out the details in the garage after church. Supply route from the port, handoff location outside Lodi, escort formation, security protocols. Every member had a role. Every contingency had a plan.
"You and Chibs take rear guard," he told me. "Watch for tails. If feds appear, you break off and run interference—lead them away from the main convoy."
"Understood."
"This isn't like the last run. Higher stakes, bigger consequences." Bobby's expression was grave. "Don't play hero. If things go south, your job is to disappear. Not fight, not rescue. Disappear."
"I got it."
He held my gaze for a moment longer, then moved on to the next briefing.
Chibs appeared at my shoulder. "Big one, this."
"Yeah."
"Ye ready?"
I thought about the preparation, the positioning, the weeks of vigilance. This run was important—but it wasn't the thing that kept me awake at night.
"I'm ready."
---
[Teller-Morrow Parking Lot — June 22, 2008, 4:45 PM]
Opie found me near the dumpster.
He moved quietly for a big man—silent footsteps, deliberate approach. I heard him anyway. Weeks of surveillance had made me hypersensitive to his presence.
"We need to talk."
I turned. His face was unreadable, but something burned behind his eyes.
"Sure."
"You've been following me."
Not a question. No point denying it.
"Yes."
"Why?"
I met his gaze directly. "Because Stahl isn't done with you. The frame job failed, but that doesn't mean she's giving up. You're still her target—you and your family."
"My family." The words came out hard. "You think Donna's in danger?"
I know she is. I know exactly how it happens, when it happens, who pulls the trigger.
"I think you're under surveillance. I think Stahl is looking for any angle she can exploit. And I think if something happened to you or your family, she wouldn't lose sleep over it."
Opie was quiet for a long moment. Processing.
"I don't need a babysitter."
"Maybe not. But you've got one anyway."
"Why?" The question carried weight now. "You barely know me. You're a prospect who's been here four months. Why do you give a damn what happens to my family?"
Because I watched your wife die on a television screen. Because I heard your screams when you found her. Because I swore I'd change it if I could.
"Because this club is supposed to be family. And family protects family."
He stared at me. Searching for lies, for manipulation, for whatever hidden agenda might explain my behavior.
Whatever he found, it wasn't enough to make him push back.
"Keep your distance," he said finally. "Donna sees you lurking, she'll panic."
"I'll be invisible."
He turned to walk away. Paused.
"Cole."
"Yeah?"
"If something does happen—" He stopped. Swallowed whatever he'd been about to say. "Just stay sharp."
He walked away.
[RELATIONSHIP UPDATE: OPIE WINSTON — CONFUSED (28)]
The notification flickered. I pushed it aside.
He knew now. Knew I was watching, knew I was protecting. He hadn't told me to stop.
That was as much permission as I was going to get.
---
[Cole's Apartment — June 24, 2008, 3:15 AM]
The system warning came without preamble.
[SURVIVAL INSTINCT: ALERT]
I sat up in bed, heart pounding. The room was dark, silent. Nothing visibly wrong.
But something was.
The instinct was primal—deep-brain awareness that danger was approaching. Not here, not now, but soon. Close enough to feel, too far to see.
I pulled on clothes, grabbed my keys, rode to Opie's street.
His house was dark. Trucks in the driveway—both his and Donna's. No movement, no lights, no signs of trouble.
I circled the block twice. Checked the side streets, the nearby intersections. Nothing.
But the feeling persisted.
I parked a block away and watched until dawn. Counted the hours. Tried to remember details from the show that might tell me when the attack came.
The memories were fragments. A dark road. The wrong truck. Tig's face when he realized his mistake.
But when? What triggered it? What sequence of events led to that moment?
You can't remember because it was fiction. Details that didn't matter then matter now, and they're gone.
The sun rose over Charming. Normal morning sounds—birds, distant traffic, a dog barking somewhere.
Donna's silhouette passed a window. Getting ready for the day. Alive.
My phone buzzed. Bobby.
Church tomorrow. Before the big run.
The pieces were moving. The timeline was accelerating.
And I still couldn't see the trigger clearly enough to stop it.
---
[TM Garage — June 25, 2008, 2:00 PM]
The days blurred into preparation.
Members came and went, checking weapons, reviewing routes, making final arrangements. The tension was palpable—everyone understood the stakes of what was coming.
I focused on the details. Checking my bike. Studying maps. Positioning myself to be where I needed to be when the moment came.
But the survival instinct wouldn't quiet.
Every shadow felt like a threat. Every unexpected sound made me flinch. The sleep deprivation had crossed from chronic to critical—my reactions were slowing, my judgment clouding.
You can't protect anyone if you collapse.
I forced myself to eat. Forced myself to rest. Four hours of broken sleep was better than none.
But the feeling persisted. Something coming. Something soon.
Half-Sack noticed.
"You look like death," he said during a cigarette break.
"Feel like it too."
"Big run nerves?"
"Something like that."
He studied me with unexpected perception. "You've been wound tight for weeks, man. Even before this operation. Something else going on?"
I'm trying to stop a murder that hasn't happened yet. Trying to save a woman I've never met. Trying to change a future that was already written.
"Just being careful."
"Careful's one thing. You're something else." He shook his head. "Get some real sleep before the run. You'll be useless if you crash."
"I'll try."
He walked away. I stayed, watching the lot, watching the road, watching for threats that hadn't materialized yet.
The phone buzzed again. Same text, different timestamp.
Church tomorrow.
Tomorrow. The briefing before the big operation.
And then the run itself.
And then whatever came after.
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